by Jo Beverley
“How can you say that? You don’t pay me a penny.”
Though Justina spoke with carefully-judged playfulness and softened the words with a smile, she wanted to scream.
Not Charles too.
She was so tired of besotted men. The fact that she still wore mourning three years after Simon’s death should be warning enough. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to her older sister. Marina had warned, rather enviously, that black suited healthy blondes all too well.
Perhaps she should finally move into half-mourning, for grays and mauves had never become her. But she knew all her anxious friends and family would see it as a sign that she was finally “getting over it.”
She wasn’t.
She would never “get over” Simon’s death, or not until those responsible were punished. Every last one.
Charles was studying her as if he would say more, but he took the hint and dropped the subject, moving away to busy himself with the wine tray.
Justina let out a breath of relief. She liked and respected her superior at the Home Department, and the amateur spy-catching work she did with him had become almost essential to her sanity, but if he embarrassed her with attentions she would have to cut the connection.
He came over to top up her wine glass, once more the efficient administrator. “You simply can’t go poking around in the affairs of a duke.”
“Even if he’s a traitor?” Justina demanded, sipping the wine to humor him, though she rarely drank alcohol.
Ormsbury sat on the satin-stripe sofa opposite her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I haven’t failed to notice your obsession with this man, Justina. Thus far, it’s been of little significance, but now . . .”
“But now he’s a duke he’s untouchable? Charles, that is horribly wrong.”
“But realistic. What shred of evidence do you have?”
Justina looked down at the tawny wine made mysterious by crystal and firelight. “You know what I have.”
“The fact that Lucky Jack Beaufort was the only survivor of the ambush in which your betrothed died,” he said crisply. “I’ve humored you on that, but I’ve checked into the story and I assure you, there’s nothing in it.” He leaned forward, and his tone gentled. “War isn’t logical, Justina, and it certainly isn’t fair. Some men are simply blessed by fate. Beaufort gained his nickname before that event.”
She looked him in the eye. “Perhaps because he was working for the French all along.”
“My dear girl . . . !” Then he caught himself. “Justina, you must see that this is an unbalanced obsession! There has never been the slightest evidence that Beaufort had irregular dealings. And you have looked, I know.”
She felt herself coloring like a guilty child. She hadn’t thought her actions so obvious. “I’ve never had the opportunity to search in a likely place. All you’ve ever let me do, Charles, is listen to gossip and search houses in which I was a guest. It would have been the sheerest luck to come across evidence in that way, but now—”
“But now he’s a duke, he’s even farther out of reach!” Then he flashed her a keen look. “Unless you’ve already wangled an invitation to Torlinghurst.”
Justina put down her scarce-touched glass and rose to pace the room. “I could, of course . . .”
“Then why not? You’d be safe enough as a guest, and able to poke around a bit.”
She closed her eyes briefly. He was humoring her. She hated to be humored. “He’d recognize the name of Simon’s promised bride. They were quite close.”
“That would give you the greater entrée.”
“But he would be bound to talk of him.” Justina thought she had said it without great feeling, but then realized her hand had risen to cover the miniature she wore pinned on her bodice. She didn’t need to open the locket to see the image. Blond hair, crooked smile, laughing eyes.
Simon.
Her heart and soul.
Dead.
Charles’ tone gentled as he said, “Justina, my dear, it’s been three years. Surely you can at least talk of it.”
“Not with him! Not with the man who caused Simon’s death.”
She swung away to hide tears by staring at a lovely Raphael hanging on the wall, praying for the outward tranquility of that Madonna.
Revenge, they said, is a dish best eaten cold, and she had sheathed herself in ice in order to pursue her cause, not even permitting herself tears. Tears were weak, a sign of despair. She had chosen action instead, and resolved to destroy all those who had destroyed her hope of happiness.
Though her role had been minor, her work with Charles had helped bring down Napoleon, the man indirectly responsible for Simon’s death. The Corsican Monster was now defeated and languishing on Elba and Justina gained some satisfaction from that.
But nothing she had done had touched Lucky Jack Beaufort. He’d even made colonel and been mentioned in dispatches before his cousin had unexpectedly died, making him Duke of Cranmoore. How could fate be so unfair as to clear the wretch’s way to such a title while Simon lay cold underground?
Or perhaps, she thought—and it almost seemed that the placid Madonna winked—fate had finally cleared the way to justice.
Yes.
With a tingle in her head that almost made her dizzy, she felt that Simon was guiding her, guiding her to Torlinghurst, guiding her to the evidence that would avenge him at last.
With a steadying breath she assumed the Madonna’s tranquil smile and turned back to redirect the conversation. “As long as Beaufort stayed in the Peninsula he was out of my reach. If he’d returned as an ordinary man-about-town it would have been quite hard to search his possessions without being caught. But as the Duke of Cranmoore . . .”
“. . . he’s blasted untouchable!”
Justina’s smile became genuine and she returned to sit in her chair. “No, Charles, you don’t understand. As the duke, he’s part of a community. I’ve visited Torlinghurst. It’s a small town into itself. Jack Beaufort’s only been there a month and can’t know everyone. With Christmas mere weeks away, the place will be filling with friends, relatives, and connections—all strangers to him. It’s easier to slip into such a huge place than into a set of rooms on Clarges Street. No one will pay attention to one more person at Torlinghurst.”
At last Charles showed guarded interest.
She pressed her advantage. “This idea came to me when Mumblethorpe was wondering whether to go there this year for Christmas. He’s a connection, but he doesn’t know the new duke. Apparently just about all the branches of the Beaufort family tree feel entitled to spend Christmas there. They always have.”
Charles worried his lips with his thumbnail, which meant that at last he was seriously considering her plan. “But how will you get inside? You’re not even a twig on the family tree, and you apparently don’t want to go as Justina Travers. If you’re thinking of passing as a servant, forget the notion. You exude breeding from every pore, and you’re far too beautiful.”
She didn’t protest the assessment. Her fine-boned beauty brought her no joy these days so there was no vanity in acknowledging it. “There are pretty maids.”
“Not for long.”
“You cynic!” she said with a laugh, but then shrugged. “In fact, I have no intention of trying to pass as a servant. It would not suit at all. Most servants never even enter the family’s part of the house, and a lingering servant is always an object of suspicion. No, I intend to pass myself off as a well-born young lady of limited fortune, and thus ignorable by all. The servants will not question me, and the company will assume I’m one of them but beneath their notice. I will be able to search Torlinghurst at leisure.”
The nail rubbed again at his lips. “Looking for what? If there ever was anything, he’ll have destroyed it.”
“It was you who taught me that villains kee
p dangerous mementos, Charles, and anyway, I doubt he’s changed his spots. You know there are people conspiring to restore Napoleon. He’ll be working with them.”
Charles shook his head, but he did not argue that point. “I have one serious concern, Justina. In your previous exploits there has been virtually no risk. I’ve always seen to that.”
“And I wish you hadn’t!”
He ignored her protest. “Even if you’d been caught prying, your high birth would have made it a mere embarrassment. If anything worse had occurred, I would have admitted that you were working for the government. But in this case, it would be impossible. Impossible to admit that the government was investigating a duke on no evidence at all.”
Justina reached to touch his hand. “Poor Charles. You’re looking so flustered. So you’re saying that if I do this, I do it alone?”
He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “I’ll help as best I can, you know that. But yes, in the end you will be on your own.”
It took only a moment to say, “So be it.”
“Oh, my dear . . .” His pleasant, intelligent, honest face was almost anguished. “If you do this and find nothing, will you put it all behind you?”
She wanted to drag her hand from his. She wanted to scream no! But in her heart Justina knew he was being reasonable. They were all being reasonable, all the family, all the friends, all the people who begged her to forget.
She met his anxious brown eyes and even squeezed his hand back a little. “If I have the opportunity to really search at Torlinghurst and find nothing, then yes, I will try to forget Jack Beaufort and move on in my life.”
Keep reading for a preview of
THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE
Available from InterMix March 2014
England, 1153
Sister Gledys of Rosewell was sinning again.
She was dreaming of her knight and knew she should wake herself up, but she didn’t. Alas for her immortal soul, she didn’t want to lose a precious moment of these visions, and her heart already raced with wicked excitement.
As always, he was fighting, clad in a long chain-mail robe and conical helmet. He wielded a sword and protected himself with a long shield on his left arm. Sometimes she saw him afoot, but he was generally on a great fighting horse in battle or skirmish.
That didn’t surprise Gledys. Strife, punctuated by outright war, had ruled England for all the eighteen years of her life, but that life had been spent in Rosewell Nunnery, so how could she create such scenes? By day she prayed earnestly for peace, so how could she dream of war so vividly by night?
Every clash of weapons rang in her ears, every squeal of angry horses, every thud of blows. Leather squeaked, metal jangled and the stink of men and horses buffeted her. Hooves cut clods from the ground, and horses breathed like bellows. When these dreams had begun the horses had spewed steam into frosty air and the men had also clouded the air as they howled with pain or roared in triumph. It was summer now, however, and the air swirled with dust and fury.
Then a chunk of earth whipped past her face and she realized she was much closer to the fighting than ever before.
Too close!
She tried to raise her arms to shield her face, tried to stumble back out of danger. It didn’t work. It never did. In these dreams, she was as powerless to move as if paralyzed.
A horse’s massive backside swung in her direction. She flinched from its flailing tail and the shod hooves that could kill if it chose to kick. She heard screams nearby. She’d scream, too, but she could no more make a sound than she could move.
Now she was willing to escape.
Wake up! Wake up!
She remained frozen in place, her eyes unalterably fixed on one warrior, and could only pray.
Lord have mercy.
Christ have mercy. . . .
It was a dream. It had to be. No one could be killed in a dream.
Holy Mary, pray for me.
Saint Michael the archangel, pray for me.
But then she wondered if this was punishment. Punishment for her sinful attraction to her knight, and for her secret longing to escape, to explore the world beyond Rosewell.
Saint Gabriel, pray for me.
Saint—
A great rattling thump jolted the litany out of her mind.
A man bellowed.
Someone had come off his horse. Had that been a death cry?
Not her knight, at least. Not her knight. He fought on, but now against a huge, grunting man.
All angels and archangels, pray for him!
Saint Joseph, pray for him. . . .
He was being driven closer to where she stood. Despite the danger Gledys’s frightened breathing changed to a pant of excitement. Would she finally see something of his face? Closer, closer, come closer. . . .
This longing was surely the worst sin of all, but she surrendered to it now, murmuring unholy prayers.
But even when he was almost on top of her she could tell little. Beneath his helmet, a hood came down on his forehead, a front part rising up on his chin, and the helmet had a piece that extended down over his nose. She could see only lean cheeks and bared teeth. Was she imagining a pleasing countenance? He wheeled his horse so that his back was to her, and she glimpsed missing teeth in the snarling red mouth of his opponent. The bigger man landed a hard blow on her knight’s arm, causing him to stagger to one side.
Gledys screamed and tried to run to him, but she was still frozen. Her knight fought on, turning his shield into a weapon, slamming his opponent’s sword hand with it and kicking him with a mailed boot. His horse joined in with hooves and teeth, and the din made Gledys want to cover her ears.
How had that blow to his arm not maimed him?
How is it that he can fight on so fiercely?
She realized that she’d closed her eyes, and forced them open, dreading what she’d see. Somehow, her knight’s opponent had been unhorsed, but the big man scrambled to his feet and unhooked a mighty ax from his saddle. An ax! Her knight leapt off his horse to face him, laughing.
Laughing?
Yes, laughing!
Was he mad?
Mad or not, he was beautiful, even sheathed in gray metal. So tall and broad shouldered, and moving as if burdened by nothing but a shirt, leaping away from another attack on strong, agile legs. It must be a mortal sin to think of a man’s legs, but she’d pay the price in hell.
Be Saint Michael, she prayed. Or Saint George.
It wouldn’t be so terrible a sin to be fascinated by the warrior angel who defeated Lucifer, or the saintly dragon slayer. She might even be receiving blessed visions symbolizing the defeat of heathens in the Holy Land by Christian crusaders.
But in her heart she knew better, and now, watching her knight breathing hard but still smiling with a burning delight in violence, she knew it yet again. These dreams came from Satan, and the swirling chaos of men and horses was a vision of hell. . . .
Gledys blinked, realizing that her view had expanded. Now she could see many fighters, but also others behind them. People in ordinary dress, some of them screaming and yelling, but with excitement.
Spectators!
This wasn’t a battle. This must be what they called a tournament, where knights played at war. Heaven only knew why. People watched for amusement, including women, some of high rank. Gledys glimpsed richly colored gowns and cloaks. Flimsy veils fluttered in a breeze and the sun glinted off precious metals and jewels. Beyond the watchers stood a stone castle on a grassy mound, where colorful pennants danced against blue sky. There were people up there, too, watching.
Why was she forced to endure this from down here?
Another man came off his horse and she remembered her knight. Was he safe? Yes! He stood his ground, although still hard-pressed by his bigger opponent, both of them breathing heavil
y, even staggering as if they might collapse together in a metal heap.
Gledys fixed her eyes on him by her own intent now, praying that he be safe. As if summoned, he looked past his opponent, straight at her. His lips parted in astonishment.
He saw her?
Gledys tried to reach out, to speak to him, but she was still mute, still frozen in place. She saw the battle-ax swing and tried to scream a warning.
Perhaps he understood, for he turned, ducking. The weapon still caught his helmet, knocking it askew, and he stumbled to one side, down to one knee.
Gledys screamed again. Knew again it couldn’t be heard in her dreamworld.
He was already up, his attention glued onto his opponent as he forced the other man backward. He was younger, stronger, magnificent. He would win! But then his eyes flicked to her once again. . . .
“Don’t,” she tried to cry. “Don’t be distracted!”
The burly man could have killed him then, but exhaustion won and he collapsed to his knees, dropping the ax, wheezing for breath. Her knight sucked in air, too, hands braced on his knees, heaving with it. But then he straightened and turned, seeking her, seeing her. A smile lit his face and he took a step toward her.
Gledys smiled back in pure joy.
At last she would meet him.
At last!
* * *
“No!”
Gledys was so used to being mute, she almost shouted the word, but choked it to a mere grunt, fist stuffed into mouth. She was back in Rosewell Nunnery in the dark dormitory.
No, not back.
She’d been nowhere else.
Though so powerfully real, it had been another dream.
She blinked up into the darkness, teeth in her knuckles to suppress a wail at being snatched out of sleep at just that moment. He’d seen her. He’d been coming to her. They might—oh, heaven, oh, hell—they might have touched.
Gledys clutched her nightcap. It had been a dream, just like all the other ones. Her knight wasn’t real. His opponents weren’t real, and nor were the watching people or the castle. Still she grieved, as she always did when snatched out of that unreal land.